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Foul jealousy! that turnest love divine to joyless dread, and makest the loving heart with hateful thoughts to languish and to pine.

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Thoughts
Joyless
Divine
Languish
Heart
Pine
Love
Hateful
Foul
Jealousy
Dread
Loving

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Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time.
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But O the exceeding grace Of highest God, that loves his creatures so, And all his works with mercy doth embrace, That blessed angels, he sends to and fro, To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe.
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Oft stumbles at a straw.
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I learned have, not to despise,What ever thing seemes small in common eyes.
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So much more profitable and gracious is doctrine by example than by rule.
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Yet is there one more cursed than they all, That canker-worm, that monster, jealousie, Which eats the heart and feeds upon the gall, Turning all love's delight to misery, Through fear of losing his felicity.
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Each goodly thing is hardest to begin.
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Ill seemes (sayd he) if he so valiant be, That he should be so sterne to stranger wight For seldom yet did living creature see That courtesie and manhood ever disagree.
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For easy things, that may be got at will, Most sorts of men do set but little store.
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My Love is like to ice, and I to fire: How comes it then that this her cold so great Is not dissolved through my so hot desire, But harder grows the more I her entreat?
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Man's wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.
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Nothing under heaven so strongly doth allure the sense of man, and all his mind possess, as beauty's love.
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Who will not mercy unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have?
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Ah! when will this long weary day have end, And lende me leave to come unto my love? - Epithalamion
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And thus of all my harvest-hope I have Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care.
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The nightingale is sovereign of song.
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For if good were not praised more than ill, None would chuse goodness of his own free will.
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How many great ones may remember'd be, Which in their days most famously did flourish, Of whom no word we hear, nor sign now see, But as things wip'd out with a sponge do perish, Because the living cared not to cherish No gentle wits, through pride or covetize, Which might their names forever memorize!
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Men, when their actions succeed not as they would, are always ready to impute the blame thereof to heaven, so as to excuse their own follies.
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Waking love suffereth no sleepe: Say, that raging love dothe appall the weake stomacke: Say, that lamenting love marreth the musicall.
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